Travellers
by illuminata79
Summary: After the war, both Mick and Evelyn have found their lives taking a very different path from what they had hoped or expected and carry on rather disillusioned and lonely, until one rainy day in a small town brings the surprise of her life for Evelyn.
1. Tired of Travelling

Despite Mick's fears that she might have found another man since they parted under such dramatic circumstances, Evelyn has never forgotten the man she met on a tiny Pacific island. When she finds no trace of him after the war has ended, she is devastated and seeks refuge in her work.

I have chosen "Cordell" by The Cranberries as this chapter's soundtrack. It's all in the lyrics.

_Once you ruled my mind  
__I thought you would always be there  
__And I'll always hold on to your face_

_But everything changes in time  
__And the answers are not always fair  
__And I hope you've gone to a better place_

_Cordell  
__Time will tell  
__They say that you've passed away  
__And I hope you've gone to a better place_

_Your lover and baby will cry  
__But your presence will always remain  
__Is this how it was meant to be?_

_You meant something more to me  
__Than what many people will see  
__And to hell with the industry_

_Cordell …_

_Time will tell  
__Time will tell  
__We all will depart and decay  
__And we all will return to a better place_

A big thank you to my friend Frannie for letting me borrow Bert for this story!

* * *

_We'll meet again  
__Don't know where, don't know when …_

I hastened my step, eager to get out of the hotel lobby with its tinkling piano, away from this song that seemed to haunt and mock me wherever I went. I had no idea why it had become so popular in times like these, with so many widows and orphans around, so many bereaved siblings and parents and friends, so many who were never going to meet their loved ones again because the war had claimed their lives or their fate remained unclear and might never be discovered.

I couldn't imagine those words, sung to such a jolly tune, would give much hope or comfort to people who had been waiting in vain for a sign of life from their missing beloved, who braved the mundane reality of their daily grind with a pasted-on smile and a stiff upper lip to hide the gaping painful void in their hearts.

People like me.

It was not as if I hadn't done all I could.

I had scoured the lists of the dead and the wounded, called on the Red Cross for assistance, kept my eyes wide open wherever I went, but there was no sign of one Michael Carpenter, last known residence Kiriwina in the Trobriand Islands.

From time to time, a man would catch my eye, because of his height or his hair or the way he walked, but it was never him, and I finally stopped getting excited at fleeting similarities that would only leave me disappointed at second glance.

As soon as the war had ended and travelling the seas was deemed safe once more, I returned to the island, presumably to get my notes and photo prints to complete my manuscript.

Or so I told Lance Talbert, my editor.

Retrieving my notebooks, however, was of course not the main reason why I wanted to go back.

The truth was that I had the book as good as finished even without referring to my notes, as all the details were still very clear and vivid in my mind. It had virtually written itself, flowing from my mind in many late-night sessions at the brand-new typewriter I had bought to replace the faithful old thing that I'd had to leave behind on the island.

Once I'd have picked up the material I had buried in the forest near the village before I had gone into hiding myself, all I would have to do was compare my current draft with my old notes and select some pictures for the book's photo section.

I went back there because I wanted to see how the natives were doing and if anyone remembered me, and, what was so much more important than anything else, to search for him.

Mick.

My saviour, my friend, my love.

I needed to find a trace of him, anything that would help me get him back.

Was it asking too much that he should still be living there?

I had been so heartbroken when I realized that he was not coming along to Australia at all. I could still feel the desperation of that moment, that icy fear that had gripped my heart when I saw him row away from the launch that had picked up John MacGregor and me to take us to safety.

My first impulse had been to jump after him, and I would have if John hadn't held me back.

I had cried and raged and cried some more all the way to Port Moresby.

By the time we got on the steamer to Sydney, I could rage and cry no longer. During many endless, sleepless nights, and long talks with John, whom our lengthy journy had turned from the stuffy missionary who used to eye me rather suspiciously into a good friend, I had come to understand that Mick would have felt a need and an obligation to stay on until the end. After all, the island was his home. It might not be the place where he had been born but the place he had chosen to live and come to love.

So there was some rightful hope I'd find him there, although I had never received an answer to the letters I had written.

Who knew if they had ever reached their destination at all. They might just as well have ended up to the bottom of the ocean when one of many mail ships went down, or they had got stranded when the mail service to the islands was shut down altogether due to the war, with all the hostilities going on in the Pacific waters and all the Westerners officially evacuated.

Despite my occasional doubts and the repeated disappointment of my futile search, I refused to believe the reason for his silence was either that he did not care for me any more, or that he had fallen victim to the war.

I knew that the islands had taken some minor shelling, but I told myself he'd have survived, hidden away in his cave.

He _must_ have survived.

I wanted, no, I _needed_ him back.

Those long months of missing him so terribly that it hurt me physically, of wanting to scream in horror and frustration as the memories of him began to lose some of their clarity, of dreaming we had been reunited only to wake up to another empty morning, they must not have been in vain.

There must be a second act for us in this play of life.

Fate had obviously decided otherwise.

I was greeted with reluctant friendliness by the native women I had met in what felt like another life. To my dismay, they were all wearing Western clothes now, and many of them proudly told me that they had seen the light and converted to Christianity. I didn't like the fact but kept my mouth shut.

And then, after I had gone to dig up the little metal strongbox that held my notes and photos, I asked my native guide the question that had been burning on the tip of my tongue ever since I'd arrived.

"What about the trader man, Mick Carpenter? Mister Mick?"

The young man gave a little shrug and hesitated. "They say there's grave … in the forest, on another island."

" A grave", I repeated tonelessly, my heart turning stone cold in my chest.

I had him take me there on the same afternoon. He led me through the jungle to a pompous grey headstone crowned by a cross. It didn't actually prove anything because it had no name on it, but that did not occur to me at the time.

To me, the nameless marker confirmed my worst fears and shattered all my hopes.

I wanted to ask a thousand more questions – what had happened, how he had died, why he was buried here and not on the island that had been his home.

But all I could do was weep.

I sank to my knees, clutching at the silent, indifferent stone, and I sobbed like I had never sobbed before in my life.

I grieved not only for Mick himself – his beauty, his kindness, his calm unobtrusive presence, his graceful movements, his endearing little chuckling laugh – but also for the second chance we had been denied, for the life we should have shared, for the future we should have had.

That goddamn war had destroyed everything, and I was left with just a stack of manuscript pages and a few photos to speak of happier days.

I didn't even have a proper picture of him, no good portrait whatsoever, nothing but a few rather blurry snapshots of him sitting on the beach with a little basket of pearl shells nestled between his crossed legs in those old navy-blue shorts he'd used to wear every time he went out "pearlin'", as he called it.

Sobered and bereft, I returned home and buried myself in work. I was largely unable to sleep and there was nothing that could actually take my mind off having lost Mick and with him all hope of a happy future, so I wrote, re-read and re-wrote almost day and night.

Lance was surprised at just how quick I was to hand in the finished manuscript and in turn managed to get the book published astonishingly fast.

Bert, my agent, had planned and organised a presentation tour that started end of November.

My account of living among an indigenous tribe famous for their outrageous sexual behaviour caused quite a ripple in the feuilletons and seemed to have all the makings of a best-seller. I made the news each town I went on my circuit and was thronged by thrilled readers and curious journalists after every reading I held.

I liked the attention of my readers, the questions they asked, the praise and sometimes also the little criticisms they gave me, whereas the journalists seeking to interview me made me uncomfortable.

All I had wanted to say was there, on the book's pages, in the photos I had chosen. What was not in there was nothing I wanted to share with the crowd.

Most of the journalists were obsessed with the fact that a young woman like me had lived among "sex-crazed savages". I got asked questions I'd never have dreamed of. Some just didn't seem able to get their heads around my never having been involved sexually with any of the native men, and at one occasion, I actually flew into the face of one – male – journalist who kept inquiring tactlessly about intimate details of both the natives' and my own life. He tried to laugh it off brashly and only left when Bert intervened, discreetly authoritative. I was furious for the rest of the evening nevertheless.

The tour was also taxing in its monotony - moving on every other day, giving the same introductory speech, reading the same excerpts, showing the same slides over and over again. Sometimes I couldn't even remember where I was or where I'd be going next.

It kept me busy, though. In the evenings, I was usually too knackered to think a lot about what had been, or, worse, about what _might have been._

But still, against better knowledge, my heart leapt in my chest and my stomach gave a little jolt of excitement a few times as a tall, well-built man with dark wavy hair came into view, a sensation unavoidably followed by the bitter pang of letdown when I saw that the face was too round, the eyes the wrong colour and shape, the nose broad and chunky, not classically long and straight.

I eyed myself critically in my hotel-room mirror now, not particularly fond of what I saw, sighed and started to touch up my face.

Carefully applied make-up would hide the shadows under my eyes, and a dab of blush would make my complexion appear less pale. A touch of lipstick added more colour, and after I had unpinned and redone my hair, I left the small suite in the surprisingly lush little hotel and took the lift downstairs, glad to hear that the pianist had moved on to play a mildly interesting classical sonata that didn't strike any chords with me.

I walked through the lobby quickly and stepped into the street to find it was raining and rather cool for the time of year. I debated whether to return to my room and fetch my umbrella but decided against it, as I didn't have much time to spare and there was a car waiting for me right outside the door. And Bert might be inclined to give me a ride back to the hotel afterwards anyway.

Hopefully he wouldn't be in one of his chatty moods and invite me for a fancy dinner, as he liked to do. I just wanted to get this afternoon's reading over with and have a simple meal in my room.

No three weeks into my tour, I was already getting tired of it.


	2. Down Memory Lane

Mick has hesitantly decided to go attend Evelyn's reading, but he doesn't put any big hopes on it, still taking a rather dark view at his life.

This chapter's title song is "Roll Away Your Stone" by Mumford & Sons.

… '_Cause you told me that I would find a hole  
Within the fragile substance of my soul  
And I have filled this void with things unreal  
And all the while my character it steals_

_Darkness is a harsh term, don't you think  
And yet it dominates the things I see_

_It seems that all my bridges have been burnt  
But you say that's exactly how this grace thing works  
It's not the long walk home that will change this heart  
But the welcome I receive with the restart_

_Darkness is a harsh term …_

* * *

"_We'll meet again  
Don't know where, don't know when  
But I know we'll meet again some ... um ... rainy day …"_

Amelia was singing in a low voice as she held my uniform jacket out for me to put on.

"Could you please _stop_ this?" I asked irritably.

"Sorry. I know, I can't carry a tune in a bucket."

"It's not _that",_ I said. "I just don't think this is going to be all romance and roses and happily ever after. We're not gonna ride off into a movie-screen sunset in the end. Who knows if she would want to see me at all. I still don't know if it's a good idea that I'm going."

Amelia took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, ostentatiously unnerved. "If that's what you think, Carpenter ... _I_ think it is a very good idea. That's all I'll say." She looked me up and down and added, "Lookin' mighty fine, Corporal. She'd better be happy to see you."

I rolled my eyes and finished buttoning my jacket before shrugging into my overcoat.

No, I was not at all sure if this was the right thing to do.

But neither could I have passed up this opportunity to see with my own eyes that she was alive and well, to catch a glimpse of her lovely face, her fiery hair, her sweet smile this one last time.

For this was the deal I had made with myself: I would take the train to Cleveland and attend her lecture, but I was not going to step forward and make direct contact. I'd just sit in the back and leave everything up to her, secretly hoping she would not notice me.

Chances were that she wouldn't immediately recognize me with the uniform and cap on and my greying hair freshly cut and neatly parted, Army-style, when the Mick she might be looking out for was a big bronzed adventurer type in a colourful shirt, with no dress sense to speak of, black curly hair perennially messy.

As for the pearl, there would certainly be some ticket seller or usherette or whatever kind of helpers they had around at these events. I'd simply leave my little envelope with one of them, trusting they'd be honest enough to pass it on.

I patted the pocket of my jacket to double-check that I had the carefully wrapped Teardrop from the Moon with me and got up to leave, thanking Amelia for looking up the train connection and the location and time of the presentation.

Now all I had to do was get into my cab to the station and board that train.

It was my first time out and about after the surgery to remove the splinter, and I would have enjoyed this bit of freedom if it hadn't been for the tight knot of apprehension in my stomach that made me feel almost sick.

All those _what ifs_ swirling in my mind, all those doubts.

I'd almost changed my mind and toyed with the idea of simply having the cab driver turn around, but I knew Amelia would give me flaming hell for chickening out, and even if it hadn't been for her, I still had a little bit of self-respect left. I might be a cripple but I certainly was not going to be a coward, too.

So I got on the train, glad that there was no one else around on the platform who could have seen me as I struggled up the steps awkwardly and dropped into the next best seat, somewhat out of breath, my pulse unpleasantly quick as my lack of exercise during the past weeks made itself sorely felt.

Sitting back, my head cocked to one side, I stared blankly out of the window for most of the short journey, trying to think of nothing, occasionally touching the small package in my pocket.

The assembly hall was not far from the station, just around the corner in fact. It was a dreary place, musty-smelling, white paint flaking off the wall in some spots. The rows of uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs were still entirely unoccupied.

There was a young woman in a brown dress hovering near the entrance who looked at me with a ready smile and asked, "Can I help you, um, sir …" Obviously, she had wanted to address me by my rank but couldn't because my overcoat covered up my insignia.

"I'm here for Evelyn's … for Mrs. Spence's reading", I said. "I know it won't start until three, but I've been wondering if I might sit down already."

With a hasty compassionate glance at my turned-up trouser leg and the crutches, she nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes of course, feel free." She waved an inviting hand at the chairs. "Take your pick."

I settled for the edge of the last row, close to the exit, which would enable me to leave quickly and quietly if I felt the need, and took off my coat, draping it over my lap so my missing leg wouldn't be immediately visible. I had no wish to attract too much attention.

I spent what felt like hours contemplating vaguely continent-shaped water stains on the wall beside me while the hall gradually began to fill with people. Nobody took much notice of me. The only person I spoke to was the fortysomething woman who greeted me politely when she sat down to my left.

And then, suddenly, there she was.

She must have come in through the side door towards the front of the room and was now standing by the table stacked with books that had been set up as her stage.

The first thing I noticed was that her hair was much longer than I remembered it, stylishly pinned up at the back of her head, and that she looked very grown-up in her grey tailored suit and white blouse.

This wasn't the spoiled young thing, almost a girl still, who had come to the Trobriands with her head full of ambitious dreams of academic success and fame.

She was beautiful as ever, but in a much more mature way now.

She had become a woman.

I watched and listened in astonishment as she opened her presentation with a short introduction of herself and her book and then started to read excerpts in a clear voice that carried effortlessly through the large room.

She spoke of the natives and their traditions and beliefs, of her own feelings and experiences as she immersed herself more and more in their culture, of her husband and the missionary and Commissioner Stevens, and of an American ex-pat pearl trader who had once taken her along in his boat when he went out diving.

I smiled a little wistfully when she read that scene. Only she and I knew that it hadn't been a generous offer on my part. I hadn't wanted to take her. She had simply gotten into my boat and refused to leave.

With every word from her mouth, with every minute that went by, I got more convinced that I shouldn't have come.

I had thought seeing her this once to establish that she was alright would help me let go in the end, but to be so close to her and yet to know she was out of reach had the opposite effect on me.

_I wanted her._

I wanted her so much that my heart ached and I felt all feeble, so much that for one moment I feared I was going to faint there and then before I managed to pull myself together.

I wanted her so much and yet I knew it could not be.

It was not for me to force myself upon her. I'd be more of a burden than anything else.

What was more, I still did not know if she was with anyone, if she had long before moved on from where we had left off.

No, this was the end of it.

I would give the pearl to the young lady who had welcomed me earlier and get the hell out of here, with the image of the poised, earnest beauty speaking so confidently in front of her audience burned indelibly into my mind. I would carry it with me as a proof that she had survived the war and was doing fine, a bittersweet souvenir of happier times, a symbol of what could have been if it hadn't been for the war.

She finished her presentation by showing a few slides, which she accompanied by clipped, precise explanations, then an elderly man who was probably her agent came forward, thanked the audience for coming and said anyone who wished to speak to Mrs. Spence or to have their books autographed were welcome to do so now.

A long line formed immediately, and I kept an eye out for the young woman in the brown dress but couldn't find her anywhere.

Well, then I'd give the pearl to that agent fellow instead.

People were moving ahead, slowly but steadily, and I rose, making my way to the front of the room beside the queue, keeping my head down in case Evelyn should look into my direction.

I hung back for a moment when I had come to the front row of chairs, waiting until she was deep in conversation with a young couple.

By the time I dared advance further, the agent was also engaged in a chat with a formidable-looking old lady.

Afraid Evelyn would detect me as soon as she was finished talking to the couple, I decided not to wait until he was done.

Instead, I pulled the envelope from my pocket, pushed it into the corner of the table unseen and hastily set off for the exit.

A chilly drizzle sprayed my face on my way to the station, and not a minute after I had entered the bleak, smelly waiting area, a heavy downpour broke loose.

I slumped against the dirty wall behind the low hard bench, utterly worn out. My leg ached badly despite the painkiller I had taken before I left, and a headache had begun to lock my temples into its vicelike grip.

I took off my cap, shoved it into the pocket of my coat and ran a hand through my cropped hair. No need to play the dashing corporal any longer, no need to hide.

Everything had gone according to plan.

I had been spared the confrontation I had feared.

She had not recognized me.

If I was honest, I didn't know if I liked the fact.

I didn't know what I wanted any more.

Pressing my fingertips into my temples, I tried to ease the pulsating pain, but to no avail. I closed my eyes for a while, hoping for the tempest within me to abate.

Of course it did not.

I heard a train clanking past and consulted my watch. It was too early to be mine, which was only due in ten minutes, but I had better go outside well in advance. _I'm in no shape today to run after my train,_ I thought and almost laughed when I became aware of the absurdity of it. I was not going to run after anything ever again.

The rain was still coming down in windswept sheets, and I kept to the back of the covered platform, leaning heavily into the crutches. I was cold in a way not entirely due to the weather, and I was hurting all over. My head was throbbing ever worse, the leg seemed to be on fire, and my shoulders were drawn and tense from carrying my full body weight on the crutches all day long.

I remembered the cigarettes in my coat pocket and hurriedly got one out, fingers trembling as I put it between my lips and fumbled to light it.

I smoked greedily, hastily, but it tasted of nothing and didn't do anything to soothe me.

Through the rush of the rain, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I threw away the cigarette butt and slowly turned around, particularly maladroit on the crutches in my frozen, pained, shaken state.

What I saw hit me in the pit of my stomach with a shockwave greater than that of any bomb or mortar shell.

_Evelyn._

My old self wanted to break into a run, to sprint across the platform to sweep her up in my arms.

That being impossible, I wanted nothing more than to hide from her sight.

But from the way she stopped dead in her tracks, I knew she had already glimpsed me.

So I simply stood and waited, both desiring and dreading the moment she would realize that the spent and broken figure in the corner, weakly holding on to a pair of crutches, was me.


	3. A Journey Ends

_Journeys end in lovers meeting.  
__- Shakespeare, Twelfth Night_

Who could say it better than the Bard?

A long and winding road comes to an end for both Mick and Evelyn. It remains to be seen if this will be the beginning of a new journey for them, but at least for the moment, they are finally in each other's arms again.

**_Into my arms (Nick Cave)_**

_I don't believe in an interventionist god  
__But I know, darling, that you do  
__But if I did I would kneel down and ask him  
__Not to intervene when it came to you_

_Oh, not to touch a hair on your head  
__Leave you as you are  
__If he felt he had to direct you  
__Then direct you into my arms_

_Into my arms, oh Lord  
__Into my arms, oh Lord  
__Into my arms, oh Lord  
__Into my arms, oh Lord_

_And I don't believe in the existence of angels  
__But looking at you I wonder if that's true  
__But if I did I would summon them together  
__And ask them to watch over you_

_Oh, to each burn a candle for you  
__To make bright and clear your path  
__And to walk like Christ in grace and love  
__And guide you into my arms_

_Into my arms …_

_But I believe in love  
__And I know that you do, too  
__And I believe in some kind of path  
__That we can walk down, me and you_

_So keep your candle burning  
And make her journey bright and pure  
That she will keep returning  
Always and evermore_

_Into my arms ..._

* * *

"That yours?"

Bert had got up from where he'd been sitting in the now-deserted front row when, finally, the last attendees had left and was pointing at a small cream-coloured envelope, half hidden from view behind the stack of books in the corner of the table.

"No", I said, bewildered and surprised. I had no idea where it had come from, but I reached for it nevertheless, curious to see what it was, and opened it with flying fingers.

It bore no address, but inside was a small package and a slip of paper addressed in neatly inked letters.

No, not actually addressed. It did not have my name on it.

The two words it said instead made the earth move beneath my feet.

_Your Winnings._

The package was wrapped in gold-flecked tissue paper of the kind I had only ever seen in one place.

"_This is from France … They say you know a trader by his paper."_

"_What does this say about you?"_

"_Payin' too much for my paper!"_

Yes, I recalled Mick's knack for this rather expensive French tissue paper to wrap his pearls with, a little quirk that did not quite square with his otherwise so simple and modest lifestyle.

I knew what the little package contained even before I opened it.

And there it was, a large, perfectly shimmering pearl, tumbling to and fro on the French paper stretched taut in my shaking hands.

I jumped up, scrunched the paper around the pearl and pushed it safely into my pocket as I took off running. Bert called something after me, but I didn't listen.

Could it be true?

Could he be _alive?_

Or had he instructed someone else to help redeem our bet as a last token of our friendship and love in case something happened to him?

I hurried into the bus station a few doors down, but nobody had seen a tall dark-haired American.

Next, the pub on the corner. I flung open the door, frantically scanned the room and was already retreating when the barman asked in a puzzled tone, "Can I help you, love?"

I ran through the pouring rain, down the road to the train station, through the station building and out onto the platform where I paused for a moment to catch my breath and to look around.

The waiting room was empty, and so was the covered platform.

Or so I thought.

I was about to double back and admit defeat when something caught my eye and I craned my neck to see past the pillar that was in my line of vision.

There was someone waiting for his train after all, someone I could ask whether he had seen anything that might help me, a tall man in a bulky grey overcoat. He was facing away from me, but even so, there was a palpable air of sadness about his bent figure.

With a pang of sympathy, I became aware of the crutches he was using and of the leg that ended way above the knee. Another of those poor devils crippled by this damned war, I thought mournfully.

At that moment, the man turned around, slowly, gingerly, straightening up a little in the process. It was clear that he was not well used to the crutches. He must have lost the leg quite recently.

I felt another stab of pity and regret on his behalf, thinking how terribly hard it must be to get used to living with this kind of injury. His posture was that of an old and tired man, but I was dead sure he was still quite young, a serviceman whose survival of the carnage in the battlefields had come at a horrifying price.

I raised my eyes to look at his face, to see if I could be right.

A small, shocked gasp escaped me as our gazes met.

As long as I shall live, I will never forget those eyes, so large and dark in a face grown pale and thin, those poignant, tormented eyes, so utterly changed, more expressive than ever but entirely deprived of their former ironic sparkle.

I dashed across the platform, never minding my heeled shoes, only to stand helplessly before him. I wanted to throw myself at him in the embrace I had craved for so long but didn't dare to, since he looked so frail and so unsteady on his crutches that I was afraid I'd knock him over.

Instead, I reached up and laid a hand on his cheek, wordlessly, lovingly.

For a moment, he did nothing but look into my eyes with this expression of unspeakable sorrow before he let his face sink into the palm of my hand and kept it there for a few heartbeats.

I ventured closer, our bodies almost touching, and rested a hand on his chest, as if to convince myself he was really there, weary and wounded but miraculously _alive._

He shifted a little, cautiously keeping his balance, and gently seized my upper arm, pressing it lightly, as if he, too, felt the need to make sure I was real, while he repeated my name over and over and then said in a miserable choked whisper, "I'm sorry, Evelyn. I'm so terribly, terribly sorry."

I looked up at him, into those darkened soulful eyes I had thought I forever lost, and replied, "Don't say that, Mick. Please. There's nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing. You are alive. You are _here. _That's all that counts."

With that, I wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my head against his chest. I couldn't hold back tears of joy and shock and sadness, and he simply tried to hold me close as best he could.

Neither of us moved when a train pulled into the station and out again.

After a long while, he kissed me on the forehead and murmured, "So you did write your book."

"Yes", I said with a funny squeak that was a cross between a laugh and a sob as I let go of his neck and put my hand on his shoulder. I needed to touch him, feel him. It still seemed so surreal. "Yes, I did. And … you? What … ?"

"I went to war after all", he answered my unspoken question. "Did my bit, as they say. Played my part, earned my stripes, lost my leg. Actually, I'm still in the army."

Only then did I realize that it was a uniform jacket he was wearing underneath his shapeless coat and recognized the typical olive-drab colour of the shirt and tie.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Went to a book presentation and missed my train", he said with the faintest smile. "I'm still in the hospital in Brisbane, out on a day pass. Got to be back by eight, or else." He raised a sarcastic eyebrow that was very much like the Mick I used to know.

"Come, then. We can have dinner at my hotel, and I'll have someone drive you back afterwards. It's not far, just a few minutes' walk from here."

Which probably meant it would take him a quarter of an hour or more, I thought ruefully the same instant, remembering how slow and deliberate his movements had been earlier. I wanted to ask him if he actually could walk that far, but I feared he'd take it as an insult and remained silent.

"Are you sure? I mean, don't you have any … other obligations tonight?" His face had lit up at my proposal, but his voice was doubtful.

"How could I, Mick? There's nothing that can keep me from being with you now."

"Well, then let's go."

So we set out on foot, which indeed turned out to be a bad idea. The rain had diminished to a fine mist, but Mick's trousers and my nylons were soaked in a matter of seconds nevertheless from sloshing through huge puddles.

When Mick almost slipped on the slick wet cobblestone outside the station, catching himself just so, I stopped, peering at him anxiously. "Are you alright? We should get ourselves a taxi after all."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Don't fuss too much over me. I'll manage. I can walk."

"No. This is not the moment to be brave", I said decisively, for it was clear to see that he was in rather bad shape. I surely wasn't going to have him walk half a mile in the rain just to do his pride justice. "I know very well that you can stand a shower of rain, but I'm definitely not marching you through this weather."

I walked over to the ticket office and asked the lady behind the counter to ring for a cab.

As I returned to his side to wait for the cab to arrive, it was evident that the almost-fall was giving him trouble despite his efforts to downplay the episode. The telltale white around his mouth as he clamped his lips tightly shut to bite back the fright and the pain betrayed him.

He didn't comment on the car taking us straight up to the hotel entrance, but he did look relieved that he wouldn't have to walk farther than necessary.

Upon arrival at the hotel I realized I had left my handbag at the assembly hall. Hoping the friendly receptionist might be kind enough to help me out with some cash, I told the driver to wait and quickly went inside.

Bert was sitting in the lobby and rose abruptly when I entered.

"Where have you _been_? You didn't even take your bag with you when you went off in a mad rush, so I thought I'd bring it here. I thought you'd have to show up here sooner or later." He handed it over, appearing slightly miffed, and added, "And I was wondering whether you'd join me for dinner?"

"Thank you, Bert, but not tonight. I have something else to do. I'll explain to you later. First of all, I've got a cab to pay. The driver must be thinking I'm trying to pull a fast one on him. See you tomorrow."

"Uh, Evelyn, won't you …"

Bert's perplexed voice trailed off behind my back as I hurried outside to pay off the driver and to pick up Mick, who had meanwhile got out of the taxi and was looking rather lost as he was waiting under the canopy outside the front door.

"Come upstairs with me. I prefer having a quiet meal in my room. The restaurant gets so crowded in the evenings."

We rode up in the lift, and I unlocked the door to my little suite and said, "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a minute, I just want to get out of these wet stockings."

I went into the bedroom to put on some comfy slacks and a soft off-white knit sweater, loosened my hair and towelled it dry. I didn't pin it up again, just treated it to a few brushstrokes and returned to where Mick had installed himself in the big armchair.

He had taken off his coat but left his uniform jacket on.

How foreign he looked in his formal attire, his unruly hair cut short so accurately and sprinkled with bits of grey that had not been there among the black wavelets when I'd last seen him.

No wonder I had not taken any notice of him at the presentation. I recalled now that I had detected a uniformed soldier in the last row, but he had not fitted the picture I'd had in my mind and therefore been dismissed as irrelevant.

It was not just the unfamiliar clothing, though.

It was his face, his expression, the way he held himself. He must have been through unimaginably hard times that had not only taken his physical wholeness but also a good part of his self-confidence and his zest for life, and the spark of dark humour in his eyes that had once allowed him to view everything with a slightly derisive, ironic distance.

I wondered what horrors he had witnessed in the war and what dreadful incident had claimed his leg, and his peace of mind.

I knelt down by his chair and reached for his hand. It was cold, which saddened me somehow because he'd always seemed to have a warming fire burning inside. I remembered how he had touched me when he had come to make me leave my cage, walk a few steps, eat something. His hands, his whole body had always felt warm, even if the tropical nights got cool for once.

I ran my thumb over the back of his hand, taking in all the small details, admiring its beauty. I had never seen more beautiful hands in anyone - large and strong but perfectly shaped and so graceful when they moved.

He raised our entwined hands to his lips and gently kissed the back of mine.

I got up to sit on the armrest of the chair, leaned into him and tenderly laid my cheek against his, seeking the corner of his mouth, shivering a little as our lips touched and teased and finally locked in a kiss.

I felt one of his hands in my hair at the nape of my neck, the other on my back, caressing me ever so softly.

"I love you, Evelyn", he whispered hoarsely. "I don't know if it's any good any more, but heaven knows I love you." He paused for a second, then added, "God, I thought I'd never say that again. Now tell me what you've been doing all the time."

I filled him in on my uneventful life after my return to Australia and on all the brouhaha about my book, and he listened attentively, watching me eagerly as I spoke, occasionally asking a question.

Talking about myself so much made me feel guilty, and I tried a few times to get him to speak of the war and its aftermath, but I could see he did not want to. His jaw tightened, and his eyes grew narrow and dark and pained when he shook his head for the last time and said, "No, Evelyn, I can't tell you about it. It was hell on earth, that's all I can say."

"I didn't want to prod", I said. "I'm sorry. Of course you don't need to talk about it if it's … hard for you."

He nodded without a further word.

To fill the ensuing awkward silence, I said, "How about something to eat now? What would you like?"

"Oh, yes. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and I'll be happy to go along with anything you order."

I picked up the telephone on the end table by the sofa, dialled Reception and asked them to send up a light meal for two.

"Wine to go with your dinner, ma'am? A light white, perhaps?"

I was about to agree, but as my glance fell on Mick's face, I remembered something.

"Um, no. Make that some well-cooled beer, please."

"_Beer,_ ma'am?" The receptionist sounded almost shocked.

"Yes, _beer",_ I said impatiently. "You _have_ beer, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course", the man hastened to assure.

"Good for you", I retorted a little testily. "Please send a few bottles up along with the food."

I turned to see Mick was watching me, and his somber face broke into a faint grin for the first time.

"Got used to the taste?" he asked, obviously recalling the same moment I had been thinking of – how I'd had the first beer of my life in the evening of a hot summer day we had spent out on the reef with his crew of native pearl divers.

I grimaced. "Not quite. But I thought I might give it another try, to celebrate the occasion."

Not much later, a knock on the door signalled the arrival of a waitress with a heavily laden tray. It was almost too much for the small coffee table, a bowl of soup for each of us and generous portions of cold meat and pickles and bread, and of course the beers.

I expected Mick to tuck in heartily as he had always done, but although he had professed to be starving, he didn't do much more than pick at his food once he had emptied his soup bowl, and while he drained one of the beers rather quickly, he left the other bottle untouched on the table when it was still half full.

He asked about some of the natives he'd been close to while we ate, and about John MacGregor, who I told him had gone back home to Britain and still wrote me the occasional letter. "He'll be delighted to hear of you", I said. "He never fails to ask if I got any news of you."

"Does he?" Mick sounded rather surprised. "Never thought he liked me a lot. Well, maybe except for those last two weeks or so, when we kept him safe in the cave. Do you remember how he scared us when he suddenly showed up down there?"

For a while, we lost ourselves in the reminiscence of those days long past, basking in the golden glow of nostalgia that made even the war-ridden time we had spent holed up in our makeshift shelter in the cave appear desirable, maybe because amid the shelling and the fear, opportunity had beckoned from afar, a promise of better and happier times to come.

All of a sudden, he winced and clutched at his forehead in apparent agony.

"What is it, Mick?" I asked, alarmed.

"I don't know", he moaned. "I've had a headache all day long, but now it feels like my head's going to explode any second."

His face had gone even more pallid, and he sank back in the chair, looking terribly exhausted.

After a moment of pained silence, he wanted to know what time it was.

"Half past six."

"Damn. I'd better get going, or I'll never get another pass", he muttered, his eyes narrowing again with another attack of the pain.

"You're not going anywhere when you're feeling like that!" I told him resolutely. "Can't you phone the hospital and say you'll stay with me? Don't you think they'd make an exception this once?"

Something crept into his eyes at this, something guarded and apprehensive.

"I'll sleep on the sofa", I hastened to add, a little sadly. How I would have loved to spend this first night with him, feel him near me without the barrier of clothes. But I was fully aware that his disability must make him feel rather uneasy about the prospect of physical closeness and didn't want to push.

Not that it mattered to me, horrified as I might have been at first to find he had been so grievously wounded. I was sure I'd never be put off by the sight of his damaged leg, sure that it wouldn't change anything between us, but I sensed that it would take time until he was ready to open up to me in this respect. A lot of time.

"Thanks", he whispered cheerlessly, covering his face with his hands. "Boy, I feel like shit."

He was so poorly that he didn't even object when I said I'd I make the call to the hospital on his behalf.

I demanded to speak to Nurse Heffernan as he had told me to. She was very kind and cooperative when I explained the situation, and from the way she didn't seem surprised at all I had a feeling she knew part of our story.

Hanging up, I told Mick everything was fine. He was massaging the muscles in his shoulder, trying to ease the tension that was giving him the splitting headache.

"Let me do that", I suggested. He took off his uniform jacket, and I began to knead the hard, knotted muscle strands, noting with a stab of regret how thin he was. All I felt under the olive-drab shirt that hung about him too loosely was skin and bones, and with his jacket off, I saw how tightly he had cinched his belt around his waist to hold up those uniform trousers that also seemed too big for him.

I didn't think my treatment had much of an effect, although he claimed it did. He still looked totally beat when I stopped, and from the way he squinted, the light seemed to hurt his eyes.

"Why don't you go lie down for a bit?" I said.

He appeared about to protest, but in the end he only nodded and weakly said, "Sorry for all this. It's really not what I should be doing now, take a nap like an old geezer." He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. "But I'm no good for anything right now. My head is killing me, and you see that I generally haven't got my strength back yet. You turn into such a sissy when you can't do anything but lie around for weeks and months. Travel a few miles and you're all knocked out." He said it lightly but his discontent and frustration were obvious.

"Do you … mind if I sit with you for a while?" I asked tentatively, not sure if he would want me to. He had always needed a certain amount of privacy, which would probably be even more true now that his body had been so brutally altered.

"I don't mind at all", he said. "It's good to know you're there."

After he had removed his tie and settled down under the covers in his shirt and trousers, I got the small overstuffed chair from the corner of the room and sat beside the bed.

He was lying with his eyes closed and his breathing shallow and regular, and I simply sat watching him, motionless, my legs tucked up under me.

There was a twinge of guilt in my stomach at the sight of his grey face, his newly sharp features, his cheekbones sticking out bladelike, his eyes underlined by dark circles even as he was resting from the day's exertion.

He had not told me much about his leg, but he had mentioned that it hadn't even been half a year that he'd been wounded and that he had needed some small additional surgery just a couple of weeks ago and had not yet fully recovered from the procedure. The short train trip must have been a hard, exhausting journey for him.

Contemplating his prostrate figure, I wondered what had he seen and done and felt, what had he been through in all those months when I had been safely home, in perfect health, writing, missing him, feeling sorry for myself?

He looked so changed, so weary and desolate, so different from when I had last seen him, on that early morning when he'd put me and John on the ship and vigorously rowed back to the island over the black nightly sea, a distinctive broad-shouldered outline against the dark sky.

Some time tonight, he had apologized profusely for casting me away like that, his eyes anxiously pleading, and I didn't think he had entirely believed me when I said I did not bear him any grudge, that I had come to understand that he'd only done what he had thought he must do to protect me.

I felt tears welling up again, both for the joy of having him back alive against all odds, having him here with me, stretched out on my own hotel bed just a few inches away, and, even more, for the pain of seeing the man I loved, this strong, confident, beautiful man who had been the rock I clung to when everything seemed to get too much for me, so badly wounded and defeated.

Would he let me be his rock now?

One thing he certainly had not lost was his pride. He had never been one to accept help easily, and I wished fervently that he would allow me to help him regain his strength and confidence, that he would give us a chance.

I was not sure he would, regardless of how much I wanted him to. I knew that his show of stubborn bravado when he almost fell outside the station had only been a small taste of just how firmly he held on to his pride and independence, particularly at this low point of his life.

With a heavy heart, I studied his quiet face, searching for traces of the old Mick.

There was the small scar above his lip and the other that cut through his eyebrow. There was the lovely dark curve his long lashes formed when his eyes were closed, the classical beauty of his long straight nose and the beard shadow around his cheeks and sensuous mouth.

Yes, it was still the face that had become as familiar as my own within the few months we'd had together, despite the hollow cheeks and the pallor and that awful army haircut.

Looking closely, I spotted a tiny speck of red below the chin where he must have nicked himself shaving. This touched me oddly, and I leaned forward and traced the angular outline of his cheek and chin very gently with my finger.

His eyelids fluttered, and for a fleeting moment, a small smile touched his lips.

I decided to take it as a good omen.

Maybe there would be a future for us after all.


End file.
